weather is here. wish you were beautiful.

What the hell's going on with Lisa? I haven't seen her for awhile. She isn't on another toque-crocheting and vodka bender, is she?

No, she's still on that 'poisonous snakes' tour. I just got a postcard from her the other day. All it says is, "hot. itchy. st francis had it goin' on. pray for me and feed my dog."

Ew, what's that creepy shit on the front?

I believe it's a dangerous green mamba. Look on the back.

"The mamba's jaw is adapted for feeding, with the snake's skin being elastic and it being able to dislocate. That is why the mamba can swallow prey up to four times the size of its head." Coool. "When striking out, the green mamba injects a venom which affects the victim's nervous system; mostly the heart or breathing." She's nuts, alright. She coulda just stayed here and got ploughed into by a camero-wielding drunk on 8th Street if she wanted to die so badly, fuck.

Yeah, but if she goes down, she's gonna do it in a steamy jungle wearing flip flops and muskol, surrounded by the cacophony of unseen creatures and the smell of fecund life on all sides.

Yeah... if she goes down, I'm taking her stereo.

dating chronicles 5: risen, indeed

After that it was all a haze. I wandered for three days and three nights, waiting for a sign. Guilt and a bad cough filled my chest. How could I decide which way to go with that cursed fever cooking my brow?

The locals were all aflutter about a tall, white stranger in town - they believed he had healing powers. While I put no stock in their belief, I felt the stranger was the only lead fate had offered me yet. I would go see him.

He sat under the old tin coca cola sign at the cantina. People had been leaving gifts of fruit, incense and dried fish for him - the holy stench of it nearly drove me away. He was slouched in his chair, sweating under an old straw hat. Asleep. I stood timidly at the bottom of the steps and said, "Um. Hi. You're the, uh, healing guy? I brought you some mescal and bon bons."

He looked up and blinked.

It was The Date.

"You're alive!"

"For sure, for sure, man. It's all good. You're still kicking, too, I see. Good news, good news."

As we drank warm orange crush and gently brushed away the flies, he told me a crazy rescue tale of air pockets and underwater nymphs. I almost believed him - no one but The Date will ever know for sure what happened in that cave.

"So are you, like, actually healing people and shit?"

"No, no. When they saw me coming out of the cave they thought I was fulfilling the old bat-saviour prophesy. I couldn't talk them out of it. I'm just a man who survived some heavy shit."

I could see that much was true. "Sometimes," I said, "that's good enough."

"Let's get out of here. That fish smell is making me dizzy." We walked hand in hand out of town toward the jungle, feeling lucky. No point wasting all that preparation for the poisonous snakes tour.

So that will bring us back to doe.

Happy Birthday Trevor.

Trevor rocks, so if you see him today give him a nod and a wet willie.

dating chronicles 4: another senseless spelunking tragedy

We were deep in the cave, moisture and the creeping fear of unseen filth on every surface. It was darkness so deep you could never get used to it, not unless you were, you know, gollum. Except for the occasional twinkle of phosphorescence in the wake of our boots as we sloshed ahead, pushing back the rising sense of danger in our throats. Had there been a warning sign of some kind posted at the entrance? We could no longer remember.

We were marvelling at the guano when the water came rushing in. It all happened so fast! I lost my footing and began to drift. The last time I laid eyes on The Date, he was hooked on a stalactite. He looked at me and tried to yell something encouraging (I think it was, "You're a wonderful person. Really.") but the water closed over his pretty head.

Later, as I mourned with some yerba matte and heart-shaped sugar cookies, I realized how little I really knew about him. But I would always be grateful for the spiritual awakening that our week together brought. And the Rodin book, the dried mangoes, and the hickey. I hope he's looking down from his celestial home with those ridiculously sleepy eyes and watching over my continuing cougar adventures.

And... done.

dating chronicles 3: scarlet billows

The guides said the sharks ate only plankton and minnows. But somehow I ended up on the appetizers list last night.

Shark diving is like bungee jumping - you do it for a rush of fear that will not actually hurt you, unless you are the statistical sucker whose last words are 'is this thing supposed to be done up like this?'. The truth is that there is real danger. I know.

Needless to say, I was looking forward to the palm wine and donuts portion of the evening by the time I swam away, hammerheads sniffing after the trail of my blood.

The Date sustained a few wounds of his own, but remained gracious and jovial throughout. My, my.

The blood and icing sugar all washed off. The doubt lingers. Maybe I'm just not accustomed to feelings; detached observation has been my territory for so long.

Shivers! It's fucking scary.

warning: this post contains the disjointed and agitated sputterings of the twitterpated and may not be appropriate for some reading audiences, particularly those with a quick gag reflex.

dating chronicles 2: I am slain

Once I recovered from the effects of spectacle, wormwood and refined sugar, I thought I might be able to think more clearly. But I'm still reeling, dear readers.

He is freaking me out with his ceaseless kindness and forthrightness. He's astute. Warm. Relaxed yet attentive. Surely it's all a clever disguise, taken from the pages of the cougar-slaying almanac? He is a dangerous and calculating brute?

Tonight we go shark diving, and then for palm wine and donuts. I will keep my eyes peeled for a chink in his sugary chain mail. And I will let you know what his fatal flaw is.

But now I must go and sing 'signed, sealed, delivered' in the shower, con gusto.

Trouble, the door is ajar. Have at 'er.

dating chronicles 1: from the mailbag

Dear Bugs, when was your last date?

Well, let's just say the last time I had a date it was for malteds and cheeseburgers after the sock hop, and later I chipped my ecstatic blog entry into a stone tablet.

But it's funny you should ask, dear reader, because I will be going on a date this week. Oh sure, it's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget how. And there's the disconcerting possibility of hit-and-run injuries.

We're going to a bullfight and then out for absinthe and cupcakes. I'll be sure to post all the fabulous details.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out exactly what a date is. Maybe that'll help me decide what to wear. Advice on the wardrobe, philosophy and etiquette of dating is welcome.